Heaven's a Lie
by Nothingham
Summary: It was back then his innocent soul died inside the pompous walls of Wammy’s House and ascended to the heavens above. Mello POV. Mature for depressing aura and maybe future yaoi.


**Set me free, your Heaven's a Lie**

It all happened back then. That's all, he knew.

It all happened back when he was a child, too small to understand the meaning behind things, and when his family had been brutally taken from him in an accident that would cost his father, his mother and his sister their lives. But yet, some holy faith had spared his life, and instead chosen to let him live with the sorrow, the grief and no one else to take care of him. It was back then he realized that in this world, he was completely left to the mercy of destiny and his faith in God.

It was back then he started hating that God.

And it was back then his innocent soul died inside the pompous walls of Wammy's House and ascended to the heavens above.

Sometimes, he wished it'd become an angel.

--

Another week was lacking to the end; it was a late Friday afternoon, and he'd just completed another class, making the end test result with 98 points out of 100 possible. And that was even a test developed for the gifted orphaned children he shared his present home with. Home… It still had a strange taste to it, almost killingly sweet like white chocolate melting on the tongue. Or strawberry pudding with whipped cream. Too sweet for his like, definitely. Uncomfortable and awkward he still felt around these children, none of them even making it to 90 points in this test, but that was beyond useful reasoning.

It wasn't because he was the unwritten and unconfirmed smartest student in the foster home; it wasn't because he was the only one without an alias yet. It was because he so damn missed pieces in all this mess of his own life having turned upside-down and was now completely empty, making him refer to himself as Nothing. The silent and discreet place as a number one student wasn't his, and he knew. For some reason, he just knew and longed for another person to come along, to challenge him, to teach him to hate, to show him how it tastes to get your face kicked in the ground, to make his life _obtain_ something again. Yes, if the seven-year-old didn't hate his God so much, he would silently pray to him at night, asking for… A rival, perhaps?

Deep buried in thought, Nothing made his way down the corridors, not lifting his head to look in any mirrors, letting his hand run on the surface of the stones making it for walls. They reminded him of a Catholic church. Everything in the building did, the beautiful way the piano inside the music room would quietly be played by solemn, skilled hands when no one else was there, the way, the sun shone through the colored glass of the windows and the serious children, all too mature for their age. It couldn't be healthy, watching himself die in here.

Dying, he was. Not physically, but his soul was no longer present.

He approached a statue of the Virgin Mary, and realized, he'd made his way through the creepiest corridors and was standing outside the church, where children would come and pray to their Lord, Father or God to not abandon them, and keep loving them as his own children. At this moment, the quiet words of a prayer reached Nothing's ears, and he clenched his fist angrily on Mary's foot, only to have her stone face smiling down at him in reply.

He hated her.

He wanted to break the statue, to break the crosses, to run into the quiet church, to stare all the solemn, quiet children in the eyes, to run to the alter and break every piece of material faith standing there. To scream at them, scream at their soulless stone faces, copies of Mary's as she smiled her empty smile down at him.

The only issue being, he knew he never could.

God, he was sick and tired of this world and his empty life. Quietly turning his head upwards to face the dark ceiling, always covered in shadows, he prayed to God that he'd died back when his loved ones did.

And he was only seven.

--

"You need an alias."

"I don't want it."

"You've been saying that ever since you knew of our system; how long will you retain nameless?"

"I do have a name, Roger. My name is Mihael, and you know that very well."

The old man sitting at a desk in front him sighed heavily as the quiet, young boy said his own name out loud. Forbidden to mention your real name, he knew, but he still clutched to it in desperate situations as right now. If not anything else, it was the only memory he had of a life, which was slipping away from him. To believe so much happiness could be taken for granted and forgotten when it was taken away from you. Maybe God really did hate him. He wouldn't deny the opinion.

Any excuse is a good excuse. God forgives everything as long as you have an excuse, anyway, hail Mary. I am a sinner, and I regret it.

"Despite your wishes, you have to get an alias if you want to keep living here," Roger said, brows furrowed annoyed at the slender, thin boy dressed in black clothing before him. It hurt the old man to see, how his eyes slowly lost their blue tint, and turned empty and gray. Uncaring. He wished to die, and it was completely clear to the man keeping an eye on the entire foster home, when Wammy himself wasn't there. This was quite often. And Roger certainly didn't have Quillish's patience with children; though, he'd come to care for this traumatized, nearly dead young boy the second he saw him, and it troubled the gentleman to watch him die without being able to do anything at all.

The boy watched him with dead eyes for a little, and Roger instantly knew what he'd say before it even escaped the pale lips. _I never asked to be here_. And yes, that statement was as true as the snow quietly fell outside in the early December evening, it being a very cold start of the month that year. The light from the lampposts outside fell on the boy's golden hair as if it too was snow, marking his slender, feminine face and lightening the empty eyes up with fake glows. For a second, it almost seemed as if Mihael was alive, but that illusion faded like snow melting on cheeks and nose.

It was his birthday in a few days, and he already seemed too grown to turn eight.

Roger sighed again, and both of them knew he would never force Mihael out of the foster home, despite his not wanting to obey their rules and rebelling against them. If it was any other child, they would have been corrected and forced to obey. But not this solemn boy.

Maybe Roger was growing too soft for this. But it was no use trying to force him; if anything, the elder man was afraid that he would try to hurt himself. Surprisingly, no sign of self-abuse was ever found on Mihael's body, but it wasn't out of the question, that he would try to, if they pushed him too far.

In a second, the keeper almost thought he saw a challenging look in the gray eyes, as if the boy dared him to correct him, challenged him to force manner and thought into the child, but it was blown away like a candle in a storm without walls to shield it from rage, and left the eyes dark and empty again.

And Roger gave up the quiet fight again, his eyes downcast from the face which turned hearts into heavy stones and warm caresses into cold blows of a winter wind with dancing snowflakes, abducting a young girl away from her protector and leaving them both alone and frozen.

"I give up."

No signs of triumph were to spot on the pale face of winter in human form. If anything, he just froze even more as he bowed and exited the office, his bare feet barely touching the floor as he danced his fatal, cold dance, abducting faith and hope into his soul, freezing them completely and disappeared from Roger's view and left the elder gentleman alone with the pale light being shone through snowflakes and frosty winds. He looked at these, sighing solemnly.

"I give up, Mihael…"


End file.
